


Family Genius

by methylviolet10b



Series: Family Genius [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crack, Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:33:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some kinds of genius runs in families. It's not always the sort you expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Family Genius

**Author's Note:**

> This idea (and the fic that follows) was inspired by Janeturenne's brilliant 30 Days Of... posts. There's some crossover here with another fandom - which one and which characters are revealed in the end notes, so you can't accidentally spoil yourself. This story is not quite crack, but close. It also contains: Serious temptation. Mental anguish. Random mention of other characters and objects which might or might not make sense to you.

It was exactly the last thing he expected to find during his search of the block of condemned flats. Rubbish, certainly. Graffiti, a given. Signs that at least some of the local population was using the area to hide and/or indulge in various addictions were almost as natural as evidence that the flats had been pilfered of anything useable or useful. The stench of urine, the dank odors of mold and rot and neglect – these were all part and parcel of this kind of urban decay, as ordinary as the sudden proliferation of ice cream vans around public parks anytime the temperature rose over 28 degrees.

What was _not_ usual – what was, in fact, utterly, gobsmackingly, _impossible_ – was finding a piece of his _childhood_ standing innocuous, pristine, and untouched in the corner of a rotting, graffiti-fouled first-floor bedroom.

A _fictional_ part of his childhood, no less. Or at least he had always supposed it so.

John stepped towards it carefully, minding the weak places in the decaying floorboards almost by instinct. His eyes remained riveted to the thing, unable to believe that it was actually there. Knowing, in fact, that it couldn’t _possibly_ be there, and that if he took his eyes off of it for a second, it would vanish back into whatever dream it had fallen out from. He kept his ears open, though, half-expecting to hear one of the sounds his favorite aunt had related to him in one of her magical, wonderful tales: the rumble of an ancient motor-car engine, the high, buzzing pitch, the low, warm laugh, the mechanical, menacing voices (or worse, the deadly-smooth, suave one), the asthmatic elephant whooping and screeching. Especially that last one, because if he did start to hear _that_ sound (whatever it sounded like; John had never quite been able to adequately imagine a noise that matched that description), he was getting well away from the thing, despite his almost overwhelming desire to touch it.

He kept watch out of the corners of his eyes, too, braced and ready to see navy-uniformed men with red berets, or shiny metal monstrosities, or best of all, a tall, white-haired man with a craggy, young-old face and a penchant for Edwardian cravats and velvet coats. He knew, deep down where he would never admit it, exactly how much his aunt’s stories had inspired him to become both a doctor and a soldier. How much they fueled his desire, his _need_ for adventure, to protect others, for the extraordinary instead of the ordinary. How much he wanted to be worthy of it, ready for it, whatever life and reality might bring.

His aunt was pretty extraordinary herself, and her stories had only cemented that fact in his young brain, along with all the rest; her courage, resourcefulness, and stubborn determination in the face of the impossible were templates for his own career. He’d always loved her stories. They were fantastic, brilliant, just like her and all the other people in them. The only thing in her tales that didn’t make sense was how or why she ever left it all behind.

Of course, he’d thought they were only _stories_. Right up until now.

He gently pressed one palm up against the blue-painted wood, unsurprised that it didn’t feel much like wood at all. It was warm against his skin, and buzzed slightly, a low hum more felt through his hand than heard with his ears. He felt the hairs on his arm rise, tingling with his excitement as much as the energy he sensed.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “Just look at you, you beautiful, impossible girl. What are you doing here, hey?”

His pocket beeped, and John practically jumped out of his skin. He hastily dug his mobile out of his coat pocket and glanced down at the screen.

_Come at once if convenient. –SH_

“Sherlock…” The name was a groan on his lips. Before he could even think about what to type in reply, his phone beeped again.

_If inconvenient, come all the same. –SH_

John felt his eyebrows rise. His phone beeped a third time.

_Come carefully; there are rather more of them than I anticipated. –SH_

“Damn!” John turned to go, only to stop as the blue box loomed large in his vision. But he couldn’t wait, and somehow he just knew it wouldn’t be here by the time he could return.

Hesitantly, he put one hand back on the door. He didn’t try to open it – because if it _did_ open, that would have been too much, he would never be able to resist going inside – but he couldn’t just leave, not without… “Sorry,” he murmured lowly. “I have to go. My friend needs me. But when you see him, could you tell him - if you can tell him…tell him Jo says hello, and that she still misses him, okay? And that he could pop round anytime he likes.” He couldn’t help grin at the joke, even though something felt lodged at the back of his throat, and he could almost taste the missed opportunity of a lifetime on his tongue. “She’d love to see you both.” He swallowed. “God, so would I, some other time.”

No response, of course. At least not from the box. His phone screen, however, changed to show a picture, one clearly taken from a phone cam. John froze for a split-second, then rushed out of the room, completely careless of the rotting floorboards and his own safety.

Unnoticed in the shadows of the adjoining room, a man watched him go. A man who didn’t look anything like the adventurer John’s Aunt Jo had described in near-obsessive detail, but whose eyes contained a combination of humor, wisdom, and wistful sadness that she would have recognized, though everything else had changed. “Already someone else’s companion, I see,” he sighed. “I hope he knows how lucky he is. You look so much like Jo. If you’ve half as much of her pluck and resolve as you do her looks, he’s in very good hands. If only…well. If, indeed.”

Shaking his head in regret, the man walked over to the incongruous police call-box and disappeared through its door. Moments later, an unearthly sound not entirely unlike a shrieking, asthmatic elephant shook the decaying room, and the box wavered and vanished from view.

 _So that’s what it sounds like,_ John thought to himself as the noise reached his ears. He kept running, and did not turn back. Sherlock needed him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is, of course, a crossover (of sorts) with the original series Doctor Who. John's "Aunt Jo" is Jo Grant, one of the Third Doctor's companions. Which Doctor it is at the end...well, that's up to you. ;-)


End file.
